


our horizon is the creation

by honooko



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honooko/pseuds/honooko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin knows he is falling, but he doesn't think he's supposed to stop. Spoilers for episodes 1x01-1x11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our horizon is the creation

There are very few moments when Merlin feels that perhaps the Dragon is not wrong. Moments like when he holds a goblet to his lips and feels the warm wine slide down his throat, leaving a path of sheer ice behind it. Before that moment, Merlin had never tasted poison. He also never tasted the surety that his life was worth less than another’s, and the warmth in knowing that if and when he died here, with his body destroying itself through a tainted drink, that he was in some twisted sense _glad_ that he could die for Arthur.

And then he lived.

~

Merlin watches Arthur’s tournaments and is torn. It is rare for men to die in the staged fights, but not unheard of. Admittedly, Arthur is the champion; his death is the least likely out of all, but the shivery waiting in Merlin’s stomach doesn’t leave until he can slide his hands across Arthur’s shoulders and lift his armor free, checking for any injuries his eyes may have missed. He aches to magic Arthur’s armor; make metal glance from it like dragonhide, make arrows shred in the air before it, make fire shy away like a horse from a barking dog. But all of these protections would only serve to endanger Arthur more, so Merlin satisfies himself with checking and re-checking every leather strap, and polishing every joint of Arthur’s gauntlets until it shines like a jewel. Every brush of his fingers is punctuated with the silent and fervent wish: _do not fail him._

It is not a spell, but it might be a prayer.

~

“It’s a good thing I don’t keep you around for your skills as a manservant,” Arthur comments with a snort when Merlin manages to fumble his entire armful of clean linens for Arthur’s bed.

Merlin ignores the skip in his chest; he has long since stopped pretending that Arthur means what Merlin almost wishes he means.

“No, I’m really much better at being the brunt of your cruel and unrelenting abuse,” Merlin agrees with a put-upon sigh.

“Nonsense,” Arthur replies, sitting on his bed and then flopping backwards, his upper body hanging off the edge. He watches Merlin work, his face turning red from the blood rushing to his head, but apparently the upside-down view is worth it. “I see no reason to employ a court jester _and_ a servant when you serve both purposes with moderate ability.”

“Maybe one day I’ll learn a proper canter, and you can ride me, too,” Merlin said without thinking, glad that his head was turned away when the words filtered through his mind.

“You’re going to have to eat more, if that’s your goal,” Arthur answered easily. “You’ve got a good six hundred pounds to add, at least.”

“I’ll let Gaius know to start using more oats in breakfast,” Merlin assures Arthur with mock-seriousness.

Merlin doesn’t spend much time thinking about how much he enjoys this. Gwen had mentioned once that Arthur spends more time in his chambers than he used to, and far more in Merlin’s presence than he has with any other servant. Even if he _hadn’t_ risked his life to save Merlin’s, his mere presence speaks volumes about Merlin’s worth in his eyes.

It’s comforting, even in his darkest moments, to know that he is not alone in his draw to Arthur.

~

When he throws himself into the lake after Arthur, he is not thinking about destiny, or about the future king, or even about how he is not a very strong swimmer himself. He is only thinking _Arthur, Arthur_ and about how very cloudy the water is on top of being cold as death.

He doesn’t know how he finds Arthur; all he knows is that he is reaching, reaching, and suddenly his fingers close around what feels like wet wool. He pulls with all his strength along with some strength he doesn’t even know he has, and Arthur is in his arms.

He is cold, like ice and stone and—

Merlin drags him to the shore. Arthur is so heavy in his arms, even with the added buoyancy of the water. He outweighs Merlin by thirty pounds without clothing; in full price regalia, all of which is sodden with lake water, Merlin doesn’t know how he manages to pull Arthur free.

His fingers are numb, but he tears off Arthur’s cloak as quickly as he can, checking for a pulse, checking for breath, checking for any sign that he isn’t too late. Arthur’s skin is cold, so cold, and Merlin is forcing heat into him without even thinking. The magic flows down his arms and leaks into Arthur’s skin as Merlin works to free his chest; in his village, a girl nearly drowned when she got tangled in her own washing line, and he’d seen her life be saved by breathing life back into her.

Merlin’s lips close over Arthur’s and he breathes, hoping it’s enough, praying it’s enough. He thinks all the magic in the world will be completely useless if he can’t even manage this. Another breath, and another. Merlin just wants to hear Arthur’s voice now; he wants Arthur to call him an idiot and cuff him across the head. He wants to hear Arthur’s shout like when Merlin downed the goblet (the sound was like Arthur was frightened, like Arthur _cared_ ), he wanted to hear anything that might mean the Dragon was right and that Merlin was stuck with him for a reason.

And suddenly, Arthur pulls in a shaky, wet breath entirely on his own. He coughs, and Merlin rolls him sideways so the water can leave his lungs without drowning him further. He rubs Arthur’s arms, murmuring soft comforts as Arthur chokes.

“Fuck,” Arthur gasps before exhaustion pulls him back into unconsciousness. But his chest rises and falls, and Merlin looks up at the sky (orange and pink at the edges, a coming dawn.)

“He lives,” Merlin breathes, to anyone who may be listening. “He lives.”

~

“I don’t love him,” Merlin insists to the Dragon. He isn’t sure why he thinks the Dragon would care, or help, or anything at all, but he’s got to talk to _someone_ and the only people he knows are Gwen (who would laugh, and laugh, then get a hold of herself and attempt to say something comforting, only to start laughing again) or Morgana (who might try to _get them together_ , and Morgana’s plans are terrifying precisely because they usually _work_ ) or Gaius (and there are just some things Merlin never, ever wants to discuss with Gaius, period, full stop.)

Which leaves the Great Dragon, who crosses his front legs and gives Merlin A Look.

“I _don’t_ ,” Merlin repeats, with force. “He’s a _prat_ , did you know? I don’t think he’ll make a very great king, what with everyone wanting to punch him in the face all the time.”

“In time,” the Dragon says, “you will discover the truest forms of yourselves and embrace them.”

“When you say embrace,” Merlin says, his voice wobbling just slightly, “I assume you mean in a metaphorical sense?”

The Dragon raises a scaled eyebrow.

“I _don’t love him,_ ” Merlin says again, just in case the point has been missed. Because he doesn’t. Love is a feeling of floating and warmth and endless affection; what he feels for Arthur is...

He sees Arthur and he feels a rush of greatness. As thought standing before him is a man who isn’t yet the finest, but isn’t far from it, and as though he would (and could, and has) die to make that so. He sees Arthur and feels infinite fear at Arthur’s power and infinite faith in his strength. Arthur makes him boil with rage and sick with despair and dizzy with joy all in the same breath. It is endlessly frustrating and endlessly _confusing_ because for all the nonsense the Dragon spews about destinies and coins and missing halves, Merlin knows that Arthur is everything Merlin isn’t, and the other way around. Merlin knows that.

“I don’t love him,” Merlin says weakly.

And in perhaps the clearest, most straightforward response he has ever given, and ever will give, the Dragon replies smoothly:

“Yet.”

Merlin watches the Dragon fly off with a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach, because somehow, the damn overgrown lizard always manages to be _right._

~

Merlin watches Will’s body and thinks about how he doesn’t have an excuse for the truth anymore.

He knows Will meant well. Will wanted to protect him, just like everyone who knows Merlin’s secret wants to protect him. But Merlin is so tired of feeling like he _needs_ that protection, and he knows that sooner or later, he’ll have to tell the truth. Either he’ll be killed for it, or he won’t. And the longer he stands by Arthur’s side, the more he sees the stakes changing. It isn’t his life he’s protecting by his silence, it’s Arthur’s trust in him he’s risking. And when he thinks about it in that context, he thinks it’s a far better choice to just be out with it and hope that Arthur is just as different from his father as Merlin believes him to be.

The battle at his village is Merlin’s chance. He tries to tell Arthur, tries to prepare him for a show of how magic can protect and save as easily as harm, and how he, Merlin, would only use his power to serve Arthur.

But Will takes the crossbow bolt, the blame, and Merlin’s chance with him to the grave.

On the ride back to Camelot, Merlin is silent. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to explain that Will’s death angers him as much as it does sadden him. He’s afraid to open his mouth for fear of what admissions will come out of it. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.

“Merlin,” Arthur says softly, and Merlin looks up. Arthur only rarely uses that tone with him; it’s gentle and caring, but shy, as though Arthur is slightly embarrassed to show his concern.

“I think he was right,” Merlin says after a moment. “I think what he did was right.”

“He used magic, Merlin,” Arthur says with a frown, but his voice sounds less sure, and more as though he is merely reciting lines.

“Magic can kill,” Merlin says quietly. “As can a sword. You wouldn’t blame someone for using a sword to that end. I won’t blame someone for using magic.”

“I don’t blame him,” Arthur says.

“Would you blame me?” Merlin asks, a thrill of fear racing down his spine. This is it; this is the moment, this is when he says it, this is—

“You’re no sorcerer,” Arthur says with such venom, such hatred, such _conviction_ , that Merlin feels his resolve melt away.

“No,” he says. “I suppose not.”

~

Arthur had moved to quickly for Merlin to stop him. He drank the goblets in one swallow and for Merlin, it was as if everything after happened in slow motion.

Arthur’s throat bobs as he swallows.

The goblet falls to the white, white sand.

Arthur’s body drops, heavy and lifeless as a stone to the ground.

Merlin wants to scream. He wants to destroy something, destroy the man in white before them, the man who has stolen a life, stolen _Arthur’s_ life for a crime of ignorance, not ill-will. Merlin’s power boils just under his skin and he is so stricken with grief that his veins are singing with the barely-restrained desire to tear everything before him apart.

It’s over. With Arthur, everything dies. Everything _must_ die.

“He’s not dead,” the Unicorn’s advocate says calmly, even as Merlin’s heart is screaming at him to stain that pristine whiteness with blood. “It was only a sleeping draught.”

 _It’s true,_ something soft in Merlin’s head says. _He’s alive._

Merlin silences his singing blood and listens. He can feel something warm, something strong, pulsing from Arthur. It is weak, but there.

In a rush, his power pulls back to the warm center of his body where it sits, his rage and fear gone as quickly as they had come. He drops to the sand and pulls Arthur into his arms, relieved to feel that he is warm to the touch.

 _I would have killed for you,_ Merlin thinks. _I nearly did._

It’s a disturbing enough thought that when he feels Arthur begin to stir, Merlin doesn’t loosen his hold. Arthur’s weight against him is grounding; part of him fears that if he lets go, he’ll lose himself completely. He is struck by how desperately he _needs_ Arthur, and he wonders if maybe that’s been the Dragon’s point all along; that his job has never been to _protect_ Arthur.

It has been to _balance_ Arthur.

Arthur’s eyes flutter open. Merlin swallows. Arthur groans.

“You know what’s the worst thing to wake up to after dying?” he says. “Your ugly mug.”

“Guess I won’t kiss you then,” Merlin answers easily, his grin almost painful.

“Good god, am I in _Hell_?!” Arthur croaks at the idea, and Merlin laughs, relief coursing through him that it’s Arthur, it’s still Arthur, it will always be Arthur.

“If you were in Hell,” Merlin says brightly, “the person offering to kiss you would be Gaius.”

“Excuse me,” Arthur says, forcing himself upright and out of Merlin’s arms. “I need to go be sick at the very idea.”

Merlin laughs and follows him, because that’s what he does; he wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist, because that’s what he wants.

“...Merlin?” Arthur says in that soft, hesitant voice.

“You’re alive,” Merlin points out, rather unnecessarily.

Arthur says nothing, but he doesn’t try to push Merlin off either, and so Merlin just feels Arthur’s warmth through his back and focuses on how very not-dead he is. For something fairly simple, it makes him indescribably happy.

“Now you know how I feel,” Arthur mutters. “Always running off and being an idiot and risking your neck.”

“Sorry,” Merlin says. “It’s not like it’s a hobby or anything.”

“Yeah, well,” Arthur says a bit gruffly. “Let’s just... both cut it out, shall we?”

Merlin hums his response, but he can’t agree. He knows better; he knows he will continue to risk his life, to give up his life, for this man. He knows that Arthur’s existence will continue to be more important than his own, and that it will only get worse with time.

But he also knows that given the choice, he will always try to return to Arthur’s side; to be there when the next danger strikes.

“I hope you paid attention to how you got in here,” Merlin says after a moment, pulling away and pointing at the Labyrinth. “I sure as hell didn’t.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says seriously. “You are a _terrible_ manservant.”

Merlin grins.


End file.
